Unfathomable
by yimmy-kins
Summary: [Femslash: BetsyOC] Sequel to Unreadable. After a few months of bliss, the world encroaches upon Betsy and Vivian. Their biggest problem? Sebastian Shaw.
1. Chapter 1

Notes: This is the sequel to "Unreadable" and contains an original character. Check that out first before moving on here or you'll be lost. Any feedback is appreciated since I'm planning on adding another story to this series. Tell me what I'm doing wrong or right!

* * *

**_Unfathomable_**

by Yimmy

Chapter 1

* * *

Well, it was now or never. "Mom, Dad, I have something to tell you."

"You got a promotion?"

"Erm… not so much."

"Oh hush, Harold! Our girl's met someone!"

I smiled into my cell phone as I imagined Mom's beaming eyes and Dad's quickening heart rate. Mom always did pick up on subtleties better than Dad, but as groundbreaking as the news was, that wasn't what I wanted to talk about. I hedged toward the subject I wanted with an uneasy "That's part of it."

"So, is he some fancy lawyer or rich dentist?"

"Harold! It doesn't matter who she's with as long as she's happy."

"A man's got to able to take care of my daughter!"

Ok Viv, you can do this. Just say it, get it out there. "I'm-"

"Young lady, is he a freeloader?"

"No!" I squeaked, face flushing and bravery tanking. "Hold on and let me back up-"

"Lord have mercy, he's a musician, isn't he? One of those mohawk wearing, chain-smoking, leather loving losers like that guy you dated in college. What was his name? Raymond? Randy?"

"Randle," chirped Mom.

Randle, now there was a name I never wanted to hear ever again. The "mohawk wearing, chain-smoking, leather loving" drummer for a now defunct Flaming Lips tribute band caught me in a phase, specifically my "I'm not gay" phase… which, when I think about it now, really was counterproductive since he had an obsession over lesbians. Not to say Randle turned me to the "dyke-side," but putting it in simpler terms, Randle was a fucking asshole, a dirty manipulator, and a cheating bastard. My friends said so, his bandmates knew so, and my parents thought so, but, well…

I wasn't gay. Denial could do terrible things to dumb, rebellious girl. God, I could be such an easy mark when I put my brain to it.

Bad memories from years ago gave me the shivers. "Gah! No! Don't you think I've learned my lesson?"

"What is he then? An architect? Another real estate agent? A kindergarten teacher? What?"

"Dad, I'm dating a model."

An eerie quiet shut my parents up. The crackling from Mom's long hair rubbing against the telephone receiver kept me company while I could almost see Dad violently chew on his upper lip.

"A model?" grunted Dad. "Like Fabio?"

"At least he should be very handsome, Harold."

Mr. I Can't Believe It's Not Butter? Randle aside, I did have decent standards. Though Betsy wasn't a man who sported almost cartoonish muscles, I'm pretty sure she outstripped Fabio in all categories.

Not to mention she could beat him up.

"Hello? Vivian, are you there?" A deep sigh from Mom. "Harold, you did it again."

"What did I do?"

"Cut her off before she even got a few words in. You just never listen to anyone besides yourse-"

"I do not!"

"There you go, interup-"

"But you were done talking!"

And this was why I couldn't wait to move out on my own come college. Mom? Psychiatrist who loved to point out what others did wrong and why they did it. A little slip of the tongue (ass instead of grass, dick instead of brick, accidentally calling Mom "Dad") got an epic lecture and at least forty eight hours underneath the microscope. Dad? An auctioneer, one of the fastest talking people in the state of New York that gave the old Micromachine spokesman a run for his money. Loved my parents but I couldn't live with them. Imagine all the adolescent epiphanies, once-in-a-lifetime crises, and idle conversations I'd lost to mannerisms garnered by their jobs.

Sheesh.

So instead of making this a long, heartfelt affair, I worked myself up and blurted out, "I'm a lesbian."

Not waiting for even a surprised gasp, I snapped my cell phone shut, tore out the battery, and flopped face first onto the bed. I lay there listening to the faint sounds of the streets outside, the crinkling of the sheets, and my own heaving breaths. Coming out of the closet shouldn't have been a big deal! People did it everyday and the world still turned. This was Manhattan, the NYC, Greenwich Village! Coming out rated as a non-issue around these parts!

Choking and tearing up? Not part of the equation, but here they were in spades. Did I mention the worry and negative vibes buzzing at me from my neutered cell? With a flick of my wrist, I launched the dastardly piece of plastic toward the bedroom door. It bounced once on the hardwood floor, skidded about two feet, and crashed into a pair of very familiar leather boots shining in all their hunter green glory and proudly declaring themselves as original Manolo Blahniks, not cheap knock-offs.

Funny—I didn't remember leaving those out this morning. As I tilted my head to get a better look, long, dainty fingers descended into the picture and scooped up my phone. A tad higher up, I spotted a black skirt draped over a pair of incredible legs with no flaws or end. A journey later, a tight t-shirt matching the expensive boots held back a body to die for. At the summit, Betsy's amused and slightly concerned face made me smile, half at her and half into the comforter.

"Hey," I muttered.

Another person might've said something utterly stupid and obvious, just to break the tension in the room while attempting (and failing) to sound cute. Betsy didn't do stupid or obvious and only did cute when the situation called for. This? This wasn't the time or place for cute.

She sauntered over to me and laid down, back first, on the bed. She craned forward a touch to peck my cheek with a light kiss but made no other move. We stayed like that for God knows how long, staring at each other as time ticked by. And as time ticked by, thoughts about my parents built up like a geyser, squeezing my chest like an over affectionate polar bear or a stomp-happy, rampaging elephant. Every muscle in my back stiffened up while I resumed an old habit of clenching my teeth.

Mom and Dad were the conservative type. Yes, they made a big deal about voting Democratic and freedom of everything, but when no one was looking, they liked to bask in a Midwestern mentality. Crime, national security, abortion, mutant rights, homosexuality—odd enough, they quietly stuck by their Puritan six-shooters. Mom called her leanings nostalgic, a flashback to her teens when hippies truly struggled for peace (not nookies), few had problems with nudity (because, according to her, "Back then, nudity meant nudity. Nudity didn't mean sex."), and people weren't as morally debase ("Now we're all afraid to hitchhike and leave our back porches open because there's so many nutcases.").

To top of my drama sundae, Dad had expectations of me. I'm Daddy's Little Girl, so that meant my boyfriend was suppose to be perfect, my wedding was suppose to be grandiose, and Dad was suppose to walk me down the aisle and give me away… only to take me back the second I returned from my honeymoon. Dad, who in his life before Mom was a grizzle Vietnam vet, was old-fashioned and militaristic in ways few people outside of myself imagined.

They loved me. They were proud of me. They thought I was perfect and I still want them to think about me that way.

Only I'm a lesbian, I'll never happily have a boyfriend, my perfect wedding won't have a bride and a groom, the woman I love is a powerful mutant who used to be part of the X-Men, and... I'm not perfect but I still want Mom and Dad to be proud of me.

I know my parents' standards shouldn't bother me or define who I am. Objectively, what they think and feel shouldn't deter me from anything. But they're my parents. As strong or weak as the argument sounds, that's the long and short of it all.

During my pity fest, Betsy put my head on her shoulder. One gentle hand stroked my hair; the other traced imaginary figures on my back. Without saying a word, she managed to bring me back under control. Betsy had this aura about her, this primal feeling exuding from every inch of her that could make others be a certain way. She assured me it was her stunning looks and not a mutant power, but whatever it was, I liked it.

My girlfriend was just that awesome.

Speaking of awesomeness, "How was your photo shoot?"

"Tragic."

Interesting word choice. "Like how?"

"The shoot was for Harper's Bazaar so everyone acted more pretentious than usual. Turns out the photographer was a modern goth wunderkind, fashionably tortured and morbidly hip. He wanted everything black, everyone stoic, me moody, and the set to resemble a scene out of MacBeth." Sighing, Betsy rubbed the bridge of her nose. "Thus, tragic."

"That bad, huh?"

"Nope. By the end of the job, the photographer was eating out of my hand like a lost little boy." A rich, wistful chuckle came from her soul. "I think I'll even make the front page next issue."

"I never pegged you for a goth, honey."

Playfully, Betsy rolled me over and straddled me. That long, sexy, silky hair of hers tickled my face while her hips pushed against mine. Only now did I see the remnants of black eyeliner and dark purple lipstick. A generous whiff of her scent reminded me of cloves and ash.

"Feel the angst?" she smiled crookedly with a little waggle in her brows.

Well now, "Whatever I'm feeling, it's not angst."

Her lips hovered over mine. They moved when I moved, teasing, eluding, begging all in the same sultry motion. I reached down to grab the bottom of her skirt, pulling up until I had access to her lower, more sensitive regions. She took in a sharp breath when I touched her firm bottom. At that moment, I found myself hating our clothes, even mentally cursing them for keeping our bodies from each other. When her teeth nipped my earlobe, my body entered another gear of arousal: my bra suddenly felt two sizes too small and my underwear bunched up, undoubtedly sopping wet.

"So," she purred, "what did your parents say?"

Crash! All the air rushed out of me as my head slammed back onto the mattress. My hazy, sexual energy exploded into a wide awake jolt like the time Mom caught me… errr… "experimenting" in bed… alone. My arousal deflated in one fell swoop, thoughts of Betsy's sweaty body all over me giving way to nightmarish images of twenty three frantic messages left on my voicemail.

While I tucked my head in my arms and groaned, Betsy cackled at my mental anguish. "Oh God," I murmured, "how much did you hear?"

I didn't get an answer for a good long minute. Apparently my never-ending embarrassment was enough to shatter the near-indomitable concentration distilled from years of martial arts discipline, a supernatural focus, and a lifetime of mental mastery. I socked Betsy in the arm for that, and the results? An insincere "Ouch" and (thankfully) slowing laughter.

"That look on your face was so adorable!"

"Adorable?" I growled. "How is this adorable? I just told my parents I'm gay! This is serious!"

Without wiping the grin off her face, she propped her chin up and held my gaze in her own. "Relax, darling. You don't even know how they're going to take it."

"I know how they're going to take it! Mom's going to ask me all these questions trying to find out when and why I turned gay and Dad's going to be Dad."

"How do you know after hanging up and taking the battery out of your phone? Stop stressing out and give them a chance." She shrugged, as if in deep thought. "They might surprise you."

"Not my parents, no way. They're old school."

"Didn't your mom used to be a flower child?"

I snorted at the stereotype. "She doesn't even listen to Bob Dylan anymore."

My phone suddenly appeared in her hand then found itself plopped onto my chest. "All I'm saying is that you don't need to be scared. Be selfish and put yourself first because I'm here, no questions asked."

Wow, what did I ever do to deserve her? Sexy, loyal, fun, and open-minded—there wasn't another person in all the world who'd be like her to me. Selfish? How could I be selfish to her? She mattered to me. Mattered to me more than my damned spazzy neurosis. "Betsy, I'd never put myself abo-"

A finger touched my lips to quiet me.

Rising from the bed, she gave a good stretch and an exaggerated yawn. "Thank yourself--you have a hot little mouth I can't get enough of."

Swagger in her step, she made sure to throw a wink at me as she disappeared out the door. Sounds of her clicking boots mingled with the surround sound system firing up in the living room.

Despite Betsy's vote of confidence, my phone—and by extension, my parents—still freaked me out. No matter how much I wished for it, the world wouldn't stop or shrink or leave us alone. Why couldn't everything be less complicated? Why couldn't I be braver? Why did I always bring drama like this onto myself? All I needed to do was put the battery back in and turn on the phone. That's it. Right now, all I worried about were possibilities, not reality.

I shoved the battery back into place. See? Nothing to be scared of! I had Betsy's support and my own feeble confidence to stand on, an unbeatable combination! Hey, and what was the worst case scenario? My parents coming down to Manhattan from upstate New York, harassing me, calling me names, then vowing to never speak to me ever again?

I could deal with that.

Just not right now. Maybe after a drink or twelve.

* * *

After seeing me so strung out, Betsy insisted we spend the rest of the night at a club. Of course, neither Betsy nor myself settled for just any club. My rationale? If you were going to go out, you might as well do it right. If not, why go out? My wilder girlfriend agreed wholeheartedly, and after a few hours of preparation, we arrived at the scene: Club/Minx.

It was one of those places that served as a refuge from the spotlight, so new only a smattering of people knew about its existence. I'd heard about this place from my boss at work; Betsy flashed her looks and celebrity status to get us in. It had the new club smell untouched by cigarette smoke or sweat. The crowd, made up of stunning women who had to have been hired by the owner or owners, was large enough to pack the dance floor but sparse enough to not bother the various celebrities and their entourages. A bar stocking the mundane (Tanqueray, 1800, Stoli) and exotic (Casa Noble, Roberto Cavalli, Blue Label Johnny Walker) found itself manned by the flashiest of bartenders who flared and mixed with the best of them. Powerful beats shook the universe from here and separated the true clubbers from the hangers-on.

"Good choice."

Betsy wrapped her arm around my waist. I knew she liked my gold, satin evening dress because she loved satin. I liked it because of the spaghetti straps and shimmering appearance, the way it reflected the strobe lights and seemed to make me glow. As for Betsy herself? I couldn't find a fault, what with her Blumarine silk tube top (which sported a nifty, sprawling dragon) and tight leather pants that looked painted on. We gravitated into the dance floor and took a fair share of stares with us.

That's right, boys, watch and drool.

Before long, her thigh invaded my dress and ground between my legs. I mirrored her every salacious move as best I could. We kissed long and hard while my hands, seemingly with minds of their own, kneaded the sinfully exquisite leather canvassing her warm, supple flesh.

Sweat beaded forth from us. I didn't care about my make-up anymore. She twirled me around and pressed my back against herself. Even after touching her breasts in all their glory, I never got tired of feeling them, seeing them, needing them. As we danced to an Oakenfold song I couldn't quite remember, her rhythmic movements hitched my breath and almost collapsed me. Her strong arms kept me upright while managing to sneak in oh-so-tantalizing strokes here and there.

As wet as I was, I couldn't forget about her.

When she leaned forward to do some nuzzling, I spun around and caught her with a tongue tying kiss. My thumbs peeled back the seemingly painted-on leather allowing one finger to slip under the material and brush along the sensitive region just above her slit. Perspiration matted her exposed midriff as my naughty finger escaped her pants and found a new playground under her top. She moaned into my mouth while her eyes rolled skyward: I left her wanting more when I pulled away from our kiss but kept a hold on her lower lip.

Her arms enfolded me.

I relented and kissed her again.

The music stopped for a split second, and I swear, every eye that could see us was on us.

Her distinct purple hair lashed all about the place, shielding me, protecting me, engulfing me.

I pushed, this time grinding so hard our bodies seemed to melt together.

Suddenly, the strobe lights fluttered and on came yet another remixed version of Britney Spears' Toxic.

The need for air forced us away from each other.

Taking one look at me, Betsy said, "You need a drink."

Who was I to argue?

I clasped her hand and blazed a trail to the free flowing bar. Being the high classed establishment this was, before we'd even settled onto the chic barstools, a bartender wearing a muscle shirt and splashes of stray alcohol nodded at us. "What'll it be, ladies?"

"Vodka cranberry with Ketel One."

He then pointed at Betsy who smoothly answered, "The house special."

Our bartender went to work as quickly as my brain did. "Hey, you haven't been here before, have you?"

"No."

"Do you have any idea what their special is? Do they even have a special?"

She got that look on her face like I was born yesterday. "Vivian, it's a swanky club in the middle of Manhattan: of course they have a signature drink."

"Yeah, but do you know what it is?"

Clank went my red concoction. "Vodka cranberry." Clank went a smoking, sea green collins glass. "The Minx."

We leaned over the drink, examined the contents, and gave each other one of those clueless looks. Being the braver of us (and also being the one who ordered this witch's brew), Betsy raised the glass to her lips and took an experimental sip.

"Well?"

After a few lip smacking seconds, she handed the drink to me. "Try it."

Since she wasn't kneeling over in unadulterated pain or making weird faces, I gave it a go. For one thing, dry ice made the stream of smoke. I tasted peach but another shot of sweetness poked through. Another mixer, same sweetness, not fruity, more like artificial. More like Red Bull. Then this tartness hit my throat and immediately I pegged it as cranberry juice and some strong rum. Finally the coup de grace? Blue Curacao.

"It's good," I said, more surprised than anything else. "It's really, really good."

"I wouldn't expect anything less from my club, young lady."

Ever so slowly, Betsy and I turned around to see the interrupting person. Already the voice sounded quasi-familiar, but along with the "my club" statement, I knew it could only be one person. A girl could dream though, no?

Standing before me in his anachronistic clothes and greasy ponytail was Sebastian Shaw, multi-billionaire, corporate mogul, real estate tycoon, and my boss. Well, he wasn't quite my boss because he didn't know or work with me, but Shaw Industries signed my paychecks so I considered him my boss' boss. My actual boss, one of the Managing Partners at my real estate firm, worked closely with Mr. Shaw: he's the one who told me about this place.

I knew about Sebastian Shaw through television and newspapers. My boss told me horror stories about him, his demanding goals, strict attitude, indelible memory, and ability to hold a grudge. I heard his distinct, gruff, and commanding voice from afar, just before he'd lock himself and a whole bunch of head honchos inside a conference room to ream them out for quotas not met. If I cared to slow down, I would've felt my entire future coming to a head, riding the ragged edge of disaster as I pondered my first words to one of the most powerful men in New York.

Oh God, did he recognize me? Was he homophobic? Was my boss here with him? Shit, what did the drink taste like?

Did I mention my nerves were acting up? "H… Hi."

Doh.

Double doh when I noticed the entourage of pretentious people surrounding us and hanging on his every move. Some of them snickered at my dumbstruck expression while others scoffed at me like I was a notch below pond scum. Betsy, however, didn't seem impressed or intimidated. If anything, she looked downright hostile, what with her eyes narrowed, an arm out protectively in front of me, and her body coiled up like a snake ready to strike.

"Ah, you are Vivian Cerras if I'm not mistaken."

How did he know my name? Holy crap on a stick, he knew my name!

"And you," he said with a bow toward Betsy, "how could I forget the enchanting Ms. Elisabeth Braddock?"

Without saying a word, she took my hand and stood up. Hello? Like, this was Sebastian Shaw! You didn't grow attitudes in front of this guy! "Betsy, what's wrong with you?"

"Him," she hissed at a quick clip, "which means our night here is over."

Hold on a second! "Quit it! Just because you're throwing a fit doesn't mean you have to drag me along!"

"Vi-"

"Your friend is right, Ms. Braddock," said an amazingly still jovial Mr. Shaw. "Stay a bit—she can enjoy herself with my associates while you and I catch up, maybe even discuss some business."

Not only was Betsy being unBetsy-like, Mr. Shaw thought I wanted to actually spend another minute under the intense scrutiny of his coattail riding dimwits. Now I remembered why I didn't hang out with rich bastards: they think they own you. What I wanted was to spend the night with my girlfriend, not run around trying to kiss the ass of someone who'd think my efforts were cute.

Sensing my uneasiness, Betsy pulled me closer. "We've got nothing to talk about, Shaw."

Beneath his smiling face lurked a temper ready to erupt. The more I looked at Mr. Shaw, the more I wanted to shiver in fear. Was he intimidating? Yes. Was his reputation preceding him in my mind? Yes. Was his posse overbearing? Yes. In addition, he had other dangerous qualities about him. Maybe it was the way he stood—bigger than his already wide frame allowed. Maybe it was the calculating gleam in his eyes—too clinical to be anything but cold and menacing.

Know what? I liked Mr. Shaw less already. Maybe Betsy did have a reason for-

"Come on, Sis, talk to the man. It might be important."

The new voice came from a blonde man suddenly appearing next to Mr. Shaw. "Brian?" Betsy gasped.

Eep. Pretty sure Brian was her twin brother's name and I was so not in a "Meet the Family" mood. They didn't look much alike for siblings, but I'd seen enough pictures and heard too many stories to be wiser. The problem was, I wasn't in a civil mood anymore after having my night killed in the most socially gruesome way.

Any impression I'd make now would be a bad one. Still though, I had an off feeling as I looked at him, like he didn't belong or wasn't looking quite right. Since Betsy was a mutant, I chalked it up to her brother also being one, but I couldn't shake the feeling of wrongness hanging all over him.

Whatever the case, instead of throwing me a dirty or confused look, Brian motioned Betsy to follow him. Mr. Shaw's smile widened to sinister proportions as he took Betsy's hand again. "Please, this way."

"We can talk here." Ouch, denied.

More frown lines breached his self-control but he remained steadfast to civility. "We shouldn't bore our respective companions with matters not pertaining to them. Our business is… sensitive."

From about forty feet away, Brian looked back at Betsy and gestured like, "Well, what are you waiting for?"

Apparently she was waiting for me. "Fine, but Vivian comes with us."

Mr. Shaw chuckled, "As you wish," and took off in Brian's direction.

We—well, I should say she—stayed back, purposely rubbing shoulder to shoulder with the burgeoning masses to put some distance between us and Mr. Shaw. People stared at us; however, this time, it wasn't because of our dancing or looks.

Betsy, her eyes downcast and previous ferocity gone, whispered to me, "I'm sorry."

I'd like to stay mad at her for being pushy, domineering, and thoughtless. I'd like to, but in a world of compromise, I settled on giving her a guilt trip, on making her say how and why she was wrong. "Sorry about what?"

"Sorry about dragging you into my problems again."

Problems? Not exactly the apology I sought. "What kind of problems could you have with Sebastian Shaw?"

"He's an evil man, Vivian. He and his group of power-hungry mutants have clashed with the X-Men for years. Whatever he wants, wherever he is, no good can come out of it. The only reason I'm even following him is because of my brother: I need to find out what Shaw's done to him. There's no way Brian would even talk to that snake, let alone fly in all the way from England without telling me."

"But this is Sebastian Shaw," I protested. "You're telling me one of the world's richest people is some sort crazy supervillain who wants to take over the world?"

"Precisely." Before I could digest the information, we'd caught up to Shaw and Brian, both of whom waited with welcoming smiles as we passed through an opened door.

In an effort to reassure me, Betsy squeezed my hand. "Stay close."

The door banged shut, thundering beats and much-too-loud voices dimming away. In good conscience, I couldn't call this place a room because that simple word didn't do it justice. This... this... thing resembled a time warp to the Victorian era. Furniture wasn't superfluous; instead, everything matched as end tables flowed into Greek styled sofas into gilded candleholders. Plants showered green splashes to break up the austere monotony while imparting a sense of life and wonder. Light sources hid from view but remained illuminating--such was the hallmark of a brilliant designer able to seamlessly blend function with form.

However, Betsy had no intention of admiring the interior decor. She lunged at her brother and grabbed a hold of his shirt. "What in the bloody hell has gotten into you?!"

Then Brian changed. His blonde hair rippled away into a lush, long brown mane. A rich, full, and very male laugh jumped up a few octaves into effeminate territory. His clothes melted into a form fitting black suit that enunciated womanly curves. Like she'd been electrocuted, Betsy let go of her "brother" and jumped backwards, almost crashing into me.

I knew there was something off about Brian but this trumped anything I could've conjured up. Her brother was actually a woman? Talk about weird genes.

"My apologies for the ruse," said an unapologetic Shaw. "All my newest Black Queen wanted to do was give you a welcomed surprise."

A sudden swirl of pink light engulfed Betsy's arm, one second a formless cloud then the next a katana I'd seen once before. She told me it was the totality of her telekinetic powers manifested into a weapon: it defined her as a superheroine, assassin, and X-Woman. Only a few months ago she proudly used her "psychic katana," but no more, not after she left the X-Men (or as she says it, the X-Men ostracized her).

"Lady Mastermind, I should've known."

Mutants with crazy mutant powers made my brain hurt. So now this lady that looked like Betsy's brother wasn't really Betsy's brother, only an imposter using her abilities. Great, what next? A telepath who could read my thoughts?

From my vision's periphery, I noticed a twinkle in "Lady Mastermind's" eye. Her grin shot past Betsy and pierced straight into me. "How about a demonstration?"

Between my startled gasp and Betsy's angry growl stepped in Sebastian Shaw. "Easy, Martinique, we're here on business. Threatening our potential partners is inadvisable."

My ears perked up at the mention of "Partners?"

"Why yes, Ms. Cerras. Your companion is quite the hot commodity in this upwardly mobile world: gorgeous, powerful, and intelligent. We could use someone like that."

"That's why you have me here?" scoffed Betsy. "You want me to join the Inner Circle?"

Inner Circle? That sounded ominous in a conspiracy theorist's sort of way. Inner Circle? What the hell was it? Sebastian Shaw's personal army to take over the world so he could remake it in his own image?

"Who better than you, Ms. Braddock? Your father joined the Hellfire Club with me, and as an inheritor of his estate, you are one of us. Your impressive resume from S.T.R.I.K.E. to the Hand is beyond reproach. Surely you would make an impressive White Queen. When Emma came to me, she wasn't half the woman you are now and she turned into quite the specimen."

The tension thickened till I could feel it weighing down on me. Lady Mastermind or Martinique or whatever she called herself folded her arms and glared at me like I was something worse than gum sticking to her stiletto heels. Shaw glowered like he was satisfactorily furious.

Betsy's laughter rose above the uneasiness. "I've spent most of my life fighting your kind. My family stands for everything you aren't. You can't give me anything I want-"

"What about revenge?"

"Against who?"

"The X-Men of course, or were my sources wrong when they said you've been... shall we say 'expelled'... from their ranks?"

I'd seen enough to know Bad Things lurked in everyone's shadows. Whether the Bad Things were in forms of violence, threats, social assassination, mental violation, or some other sort of unfathomable happenings I didn't want to stick around and find out. Ok, so maybe Betsy pegged Shaw right when she said the billionaire wanted to take over the world. Billionaires did have too much time on their hands and messing around with a team of deadly mutants seemed like a kind of twisted, extreme sport that'll get their blood going.

With a forceful pull, I tugged on Betsy's wrist and pointed back to the closed door. "We're leaving," I said, a hint of steel in my voice so there (hopefully) wouldn't be arguments. "The night's been ruined and I don't want it getting worse."

A wiry grin spread over Shaw's lips. "I never thought I'd see a pussy-wiped X-Man, but I suppose there's always firsts." He drew a business card from his jacket pocket and flicked it at Betsy, who of course snatched the spinning projectile mid-flight. "My offer remains on the table for one week. Take your time and imagine all the great things you can attain, all the emotions you can let run free, and all the resources that'll be at your disposal. Why, you could even cure your insane brother."

"What do you know about Jamie?" demanded Betsy.

"Nothing much, only rumors and speculation about this and that, about your father's research and the tragic accident which took his life. Seemed like he was working on a personal project at the time, something a close friend of mine was helping him with. Of course, I'm no scientist but I-"

Bad Things turned out to be my girlfriend losing her temper, lunging at Shaw, and plunging her sword into the man's chest. However, instead of a gory display followed by my own freakish screams, Shaw's body rippled like a mirage and continued speaking as if never interrupted.

"- have skimmed through a few pages of your father's work. Might've been that he knew about your older brother's latent power? Maybe he risked his life to help his eldest son? I'd be willing to share more of my knowledge if you accepted my offer. But for now, enjoy Club/Minx and have a nice night. But for now, enjoy Club/Minx and have a nice ni..."

"Another one of Lady Mastermind's illusions," she muttered, a hint of paranoia in her eyes as she backed away to the door. "Bloody hell, it's time to go."

* * *

We didn't say anything to each other the entire ride home. For once, we actually stayed silent when we entered our home and separated into our own private sanctuaries. Personally, I was still in shock over the stand-off. Sebastian Shaw? Enemy to the X-Men? Billionaire? I had my first real brush with evil mutants. E-V-I-L mutants! They weren't just crazy stories the government made up to scare us into voting for their newest anti-mutants bill!

Come on, Sebastian Shaw--my boss' boss--was bent on taking over the world. That's like saying Bill Gates, Donald Trump, or Emma Frost wanted to... to...

Oh boy, he said something about Emma, didn't he? Something about her and white queens? After the past few hours, I wouldn't be surprised if "Emma" turned out to be "Emma Grace Frost, CEO of Frost Enterprises."

Tangents like these put my mind in a bender, but Betsy's silence came from darker thoughts. Didn't take me long to feel the indecisiveness radiating from her. What Shaw said tonight meant so much more to her than me because she lived a life I couldn't even fathom. I said before Betsy was difficult to read, but as I watched her lying dejectedly on the couch, I felt her fighting with herself.

After all, I'd seen the expression many a times on my clients.

Should I or shouldn't I? A simple question, but simple questions were always the hardest. Simple questions couldn't be manipulated and therein lay the inner warfare. I couldn't even pretend to know the factors occupying her mind: people I dealt with poured over a house, a material possession, but Betsy anguished over a potential blow to her soul, the fabric of herself. If Shaw was as bad as he seemed, then his offer was a deal from the devil.

Yet the offer was enticing. Hell if I had a clue, maybe it had to do with her insane brother she never talked about, maybe the Shaws and Braddocks had a past, maybe she was still bitter over her split with the X-Men, maybe Betsy wasn't the heroine she claimed to once be.

Maybe, but I didn't care. All I cared about was her...

Now, if I kept telling myself that, maybe the doubts and butterflies in my stomach would stop flopping around.

Lurking beneath our comfortable relationship was an unknown ebb. Before, the mystery intrigued me like a raging bonfire, but now, I feared it. I knew what Betsy could do, I knew what she used to do, and I knew that wasn't all there was to her story. I wanted to trust her but my mind refused because I didn't know everything, couldn't gauge every facet of her. Doubt worked through me, nursed into a full bloom by tonight.

Mystery--it stopped being intriguing and became annoying.

"I'm worried about you, Betsy."

Despite looking like a numbed, tired soldier, she rose from the couch with her characteristic easy grace. To her credit, she didn't act clueless or ask me why I was worried; instead, she pulled me into a soft, comforting embrace.

"Don't," she whispered. "Tonight's drama isn't worth it."

"Then why are you like this?"

"I have some difficult choices to make."

"What kind of choices? Betsy, if Sebastian Shaw is planning something, you have to stop him."

"Luv, it's not that simple."

"How? You're one of the good guys. Good guys stop bad guys!"

"Am I?"

"Are you what?"

"Am I one of the good guys? How can you be so sure of me?"

"Because I love you."

"Doesn't mean I'm not a monster at heart."

"Then you've been lying to me all this time? Then I've been wrong to trust you, to love you, to close my eyes around you?"

A pair of tears escaped from under her eyelids. Without really thinking, I leaned forward and kissed them away, the trails of their hurt replaced by rosy lipstick. Her façade slipped, she leaned into me while the beginnings of a sob overcame her barriers.

I'd be lying if I said she didn't scare me. Betsy? My knight in shining armor? Falling apart? How?

"You love me too much."

"You don't love yourself enough," I countered, my voice straining as I struggled to hold onto what we had, to stop her demons from taking her over, to quiet my fear. "If you love yourself as much I as love you, you wouldn't be questioning whether you're a good person or not. You'd know."

She knew, and as we shared a fleeting moment lost in each other's souls, I knew too. The dam I'd built up against her tears split apart, destroyed by the things Sebastian Shaw said. His words about a history and a society I didn't understand resonated with her. For all her misgivings, she found his offer enticing. Why else would she be crying? Why else would she look so resolved and yet disappointed?

Why couldn't she look me in the eyes anymore? "You couldn't stand him when the night began and now you're going to join him in his 'take-over-the-world' campaign?"

She shrank back and wrapped her arms around herself. "Vivian, I said it's not that simple."

"Tell me why isn't not simple."

"Vivian-"

"Tell me!"

My voice echoed through the loft, a hollow metal twang accompanying it. I twisted my doubt and fear into anger and confidence, things which Betsy in this state of mind seemed to respect. Respect garnered her attention, and with that shout, she felt the storm of confusion within me. I shoved her protectiveness away and challenged her to trust me. Trust me and love me because I trusted and loved her.

She ambled back to the couch and motioned for me to join her but I refused. I couldn't afford to fall into her and forget my resolve; she couldn't afford to fight against her demons alone. Defiantly, I stood rooted in place and towering over her. My knight in shining armor looked so small without her layers of emotional armor, so easy to feel sorry for, but I wouldn't let myself do so. I wouldn't let whatever inside of her heart eat away at any more of her.

I had to be strong for the both of us.

"You remember Shaw saying something about my older brother?"

"Jamie," I supplied. How could I forget? Almost every word of that maddening conversation seared into my brain, replaying over and over again to taunt me.

"Right," she breathed, "Jamie. He's almost ten years older than Brian and myself, so growing up, he always went off to do his own thing. Family? We're family, but did I truly know Jamie? No, and I doubt anyone truly knew him. His only constant was 'more.' More women, more money, more fame, more, more, more--if something is worth doing, it's worth overdoing. By the time I was fifteen, Jamie was racing cars on the F1 circuit, snorting cocaine, and running with the mob. I guess he always wanted to show Brian and I that he was better, that little brother and sister couldn't do what he did."

"He was jealous of you two?"

"Immensely so."

"Why?"

As if to answer my question, the television remote hovered into the air on its own. "Our mutant powers. Brian and I took after Father's... shall we say, 'protector lifestyle' at a young age. Jamie thought he didn't have powers, so to compensate, he did crazy things."

"Thought he didn't have powers?"

"Mutations aren't consistent, Vivian. His powers didn't develop until later in life, and when they did, he went insane."

I read articles about mutants becoming self-destructive once their powers developed. The Church of Humanity put out fliers and advertisements about "helping and curing these troubled souls by any means necessary." They talked about boys who couldn't talk because their tongues grew too long, girls who couldn't touch others because they could suck the life out of anyone close to them. These were stories to me, nothing else.

Betsy lived it.

"What were his powers?"

"To change reality."

"Change reality? You're not talking about changing the world one person at a time, you're talking about..."

My hands made some nonsensical gestures while I processed the sheer... sheer... scope of it all.

"The cocaine didn't help much, especially on the mental stability front. Imagine flying off the handle as high as a kite, crashing back down, but then realizing the world was still caught up in your spent euphoria. His every stray thought came to life."

Couldn't imagine it, but, "Must be quite an experience."

"I had to put him in a coma to stop the world from being ripped apart."

Damn. Just... damn. My grasp on the situation just slipped that much more. Times like these I realized how different of a life Betsy used to lead and how much I didn't know about her. Crazed business men, omnipotent brothers, mutant allies, international assassins--these were her until me. God, what kind of blindness made me think her past wouldn't catch up to us? Why didn't I ask sooner? Why didn't she tell me herself?

"You understand why I can't ignore Sebastian Shaw now? I wasn't as close to Jamie as I am Brian, but the least I owe my big brother is due diligence. Like I said, I have some choices to make tonight and they're not simple."

People twisting the world into their own image? People like the X-Men dealt with stuff like that. "I know you're not really on speaking terms with the X-Men, but don't you think they should be handling Shaw? You said they've done it before."

"Jamie's my brother."

"And you're my girlfriend! I don't want to see you getting hurt or killed!"

Instead of matching my shouts, she grew softer, more tender, even vulnerable. "I can't hide from him, Vivian. He's relentless, and when offering me power won't work, he'll use you to convince me."

That's outrageous! That's wrong! "That's against the law!"

"Sorry to tell you, luv, but the law doesn't apply to the rich and powerful."

* * *

_- To be concluded..._


	2. Chapter 2

Notes: Warning! Violence and sex ensues, so if you're squimish, look away!

* * *

**_Unfathomable_**

by Yimmy

Chapter 2

* * *

We went to bed afterwards, her exhausted and me having to work the next day. All through night and into the morning, ghosts of the rich and powerful haunted me. Every terrible corporate pyramid climbing movie I'd ever watched (The Devil's Advocate and The Firm stand front and center) visited me in my dreams. Sebastian Shaw--the devilish powerbroker--and Betsy--his unwilling victim--reprised their roles in every unoriginal fashion. His corrupting claws would sink deeper and deeper into her till she couldn't escape, till she didn't even remember who I was.

I gave her an extra hug and kiss this morning to banish my demons. Her comforting words and cleared up eyes gave me the courage to head into work.

Still hadn't turned on my cell phone yet, but my parents were another beast best left to wrestle later.

"How are ya doin', Ms. Cerras?" greeted the parking attendant, a sweet, heavy set, middle aged woman named Dorothy.

"It's another day," I smiled while handing her my parking permit to stamp. "Hope it'll be same old, same old."

My reflection from her bifocals let me know how unconvincing my feigned joy was. "Well, I got good news to perk you right up."

As she fumbled around under her cash register, I turned my head around to peek at the mass of cars lined up behind me. The hostile glares from fellow motorists, agitated at my slowing down Dorothy's usually efficient work, burned holes into my good sense. I wanted to tell her to hurry up, that "perking me right up" wasn't worth the bother, that I appreciated her gesture. My heart couldn't find the callousness to say so.

Moments before horns blared, she sat back up and handed me a black tag to hook onto my rearview mirror.

"One of the secretaries told me to give it to you," she winked. "Looks like you're moving up the world!"

A black tag. Managing Partners had black tags on their cars so they could park in the VIP section closest to the elevators. Security cameras and security guards watched the spacious twelve car area with vigilance and ferocity. A car without the hallowed tag would meet Bad Things if parked there for any amount of time. I heard of delivery people, presumptuous employees, and clueless visitors complaining about missing vehicles, wheel boots, and, even one instance, broken windows.

A black tag? I wasn't even close to sniffing Partner territory! I wasn't old enough, I wasn't influential enough, heck, I hadn't even made enough sales yet! What did I do you deserve a-

A car horn's blare followed by a "Move it, lady!" made me pull forward. To park or not to park, that was the question. Actually, not even a question: this had to be a mistake. Mistake on Dorothy's part for maybe confusing me with someone else, and barring that, a mistake on my part for accepting the tag.

My better sense screamed "bribe from the rich and powerful Sebastian Shaw!"

I veered off to where I normally parked my car. Low and behold, a cosmic joke conspired against me: no spots. Oh, there was one spot, but the idiot on the right felt it appropriate to take up a space and half with his boat-like Tahoe. Freakin' NRA members...

The black tag beckoned me, this time much more appealing. Parking anywhere wasn't unreasonable but the walk would be far. The route back here after nightfall wasn't seedy but I didn't want to stake my life on it. I mean, people still talked about the time one of the security guards tried to kidnap a former colleague of mine. Understandably, she got scared and decided to work at another real estate firm, not that I blamed her.

I knew I shouldn't, but in the end, I did.

My Lexus pulled up into a fleet of BMWs, Bentleys, and Jaguars. One of the guards posted there to ward off mere mortals like myself made a move to stop me, but when he spied the black tag, he sat back down and gave me the most courteous smile. I could get used to this if I wasn't certain Sebastian Shaw wanted to buy my soul.

Creepy... frowning... lecherous... power hungry Sebastian Shaw...

I grabbed my cell phone and-

Stopped. Hadn't turned on my cell phone since yesterday. Probably missed a bevy of calls, most of them from Mom and Dad. Turning on my phone meant having to face that reality when all I wanted to do was call and ask Betsy, "Would Shaw really be this blatantly underhanded?"

I screamed in surprise when I heard the guard, formerly sitting at his perch, tap against my window. "Ma'am, are you ok?"

"Fine," I squeaked, stuffing my phone in my purse and bolting out of the car. "Just forgot something at home, that's all."

He didn't believe me but it wasn't his place to question me. Black tag, remember? I could probably slap his face and he'd ask me for another. The comforting thought didn't do anything for my dignity as I all but sprinted into the building. I needed to get in my office and call Betsy. I needed to think of a rational explanation for the black tag.

Instead I heard applause.

At first I thought it was someone's birthday. Receptionists and interns grinned at me as they clapped. Acquaintances stopped whatever they were doing and beamed, some even resorting to cat calls. Other associates surrounded me while offering congratulations and handshakes. A virtual sea of humanity overwhelmed me with their genuine encouragement.

It wasn't someone's birthday; it felt a lot like my funeral.

My boss' face materialized from the chaos. Despite the almost joyful chuckles, he wasn't pleased: he looked at me like I was a thief, his handshake was too firm, and his smile showed too much teeth.

"Guess you're walking with big dogs now."

He spoke flatly, unable to keep the envy and puzzlement out of his voice. Whatever working relationship we had shattered against my newfound success. From my friends, I spotted similar expressions of outwardly happy but inwardly steamed. Against my will, disappointment made my cheeks redden and my eyes teary. I knew I had other things, namely Sebastian Shaw, to consider, but it hurt to know the people I trusted, people I worked with for years, people who I invited to my home were so... so... petty.

Then again, I'd be steamed at myself if I wasn't me. Actually, I was steamed at myself. Who was the dense, stupid, unconfident, trouble-seeking girl who just got promoted? That's right: me. Instead of listening to my good sense, I walked into the office praying what I knew wasn't real. For Christ's sake, my cell phone was turned off because I didn't have the spine to talk to my parents! Immature, crazy, and stupid, stupid, stupid.

"Now, now folks, please let her take it all in: our lady of the hour seems stunned at the attention."

I couldn't even see him, but with that one declaration, Sebastian Shaw quieted the entire office. His presence stifled exuberance and magnified my own misgivings. Bolting seemed like a good idea but I was trapped, pinned in from all sides by those I didn't know what to make of anymore. An immediate tenseness, like when a teacher walked into a room, descended and blanketed the room in quiet, questioning murmurs.

Sebastian strode to the forefront, his bulky body cutting through the crowd in a primal way which reminded me of Betsy. In the daylight (perhaps because of those surrounding us), his frown lines didn't appear as deep, his eyebrows didn't furl in annoyance, and his eyes didn't gleam with a dangerous glint: he actually looked less villainous and more human.

"Ms. Cerras," he said, "it's my pleasure to inform you that as of this morning, you've become a Managing Partner at La Roche and Associates." A pause and judging by the lipless smile, it was probably for dramatic effect. "I'd like for us to have a private meeting in the conference room. As you can tell, this will be quite the adjustment for you."

The way he said "adjustment" sent chills through me; all his human qualities went out the window. I frantically searched other faces to see if they caught the inflection but the crowd remained steadfastly oblivious. I was alone and cornered by what Betsy told me was a devil of a man.

How come this felt worse than the time I was kidnapped and used as bait by Japanese assassins?

One wave of his hand dismissed the crowd like unwelcome bugs. Sounds of phones, copying machines, and controlled chaos reasserted themselves. I marveled how this silent place could come to life without delay or fanfare, then I remembered Sebastian's accomplice. Martinique? Lady Mastermind? Whatever she called herself, she could influence minds. How could I be sure everything here wasn't some kind of illusion? What told me anything today was real? Was I caught in her grasp already? Did Sebastian have another crueler trick up his sleeve?

A closing door brought my mind back to earth and into the conference room. How did I get in here? I didn't remember-

"By now I'm sure you have plenty of questions, Ms. Cerras. What do I want with you? Why were you promoted? Why are you here? Valid inquiries, but as a man of science, I clearly separate 'valid' from 'pertinent.'"

I tried to turn around to face him but I couldn't. I... I couldn't! I stood at rigid attention, my chest thrust out, my mouth closed, and all I wanted to do was scream for all I was worth!

The door closed behind me as I broke out into a cold sweat. The opened blinds showing the insides of the conference room to everyone in the office shut. The ones at the windows? Already closed. With a flick of a switch, Sebastian plunged my world into darkness. All I could make out were the edges of the massive table before me and his shadowy body striding to the front of the room.

Every step seemed to make him grow both in height and bulk.

Despite his back to me, he continued his speech. "Ms. Cerras, you are special. I speak not of your abilities or personality--no, I reserve that for those simpleton therapists many of you are fond of--but rather I speak of your heritage, your genetics. Regardless of what you may think you know, your family tree is convoluted, one born from hurt, deception, and revenge."

My eyes adjusted to the darkness. He slowly faced me and all of sudden, shining like a dreadful star in the sky, a red glow gleamed from his forehead. Sebastian's skin turned as white as snow, his teeth grew sharper, and his pupils disappeared into pits of nothingness.

My mouth could move again but my body remained rigid. "Mr... Mr... Shaw?"

"Not Shaw," he grinned, "Sinister, and you, my daughter, should be asking yourself the only pertinent question: am I ready?"

* * *

_My name was Vivian Cerras. I was thirty one years old and in a serious relationship. My job? Real estate at La Roche. I lived in a Greenwich Village loft shared by my lover, Elisabeth Braddock. My parents, Harold and Yvette, had no idea I was a lesbian. My friends called me Peeps and I enjoy-_

_"You are Specimen SP3, part of my Progeny experiment. Your mother, Dr. Yvette Leigh Cerras, is a direct descendent of Rebecca Essex, my dearly departed wife. Rebecca was perfect in every way, her beauty dwarfed only by the fantastic but dormant mutations building up in her genome. Various factors--some environmental but most genetic--prevented her from phenotypical manifestations of mutant abilities. When she died in 1859, I had no clue what a strand of DNA could accomplish, and like a fool, I allowed her to be cremated."_

_I was normal. I was gay, but I was normal. I didn't have any powers, I couldn't jump over buildings, and I certainly couldn't break out of the surgical table I was strapped to. My cell phone wasn't on; even if it was, it wasn't in reach. The person whom I thought was Sebastian Shaw kidnapped me and took me to this sterile place. Betsy-_

_"However, she gave me one son. Mutations are not always kind and Adam bore the curse of Rebecca's unique genetics. Born without those inhibitors which kept Rebecca healthy, diseases rare and many ravaged him, so many not even I could save him. I thought her legacy ended, but years later, I found out I was wrong. In my all encompassing quest to perfect my work to unravel Darwin's theories, Rebecca had a affair with another man. She hid herself from me for months, not that I would've noticed her morning sickness or growing abdomen. When she conceived, brothers, sisters, parents surrounded her, no husband. She gave the child to them, recovered from her labor, and returned to me as if nothing happened."_

_Betsy needed to rescue me. How I didn't know, but I needed her right now. This madman Sinister was lecturing me, shooting me up with needles, and attaching things all over me. I was scared and naked and getting tired. Tired, not in a physical kind of way, but in a mind tired kind of way._

_"Only by happenstance did I discover this illegitimate lineage, this family of normal humans balancing on the precipice of greatness and doom. I bide my time. After spending years sorting through genetic filth and painfully pedestrian specimens, I found Yvette. She most closely resembled Rebecca's perfection and I deemed her worthy to bear me a child capable of carrying the Essex name. I posed as a patient, copulated with her during a counseling session, and you are the result."_

_No, Mom and Dad... loved each other. Mom had standards and never even befriended her patients. I had Dad's nose and ears. Something I... I didn't have? A white face and gr... greasy slicked back hair... Also lacking the glowing red thing on my forehead. I was Vivian Cerras, not... not..._

_Another needle plunged into me and I gasped. "Yet you still are not what I'm looking for. Close I have to say, but not close enough. The mutations within you, muted by the same confounding factors which stifled Rebecca's ascendance, will not suffice. I could destroy those inhibitory genes yet the same fate which befell Adam would befall you. Thus, you are my daughter but not my heir. The mother to my heir? After extensive analysis on my vast database, I have to say yes."_

_This guy was... was... crazy. Oh lord, was he going to rape me? Why was he giving me all these... these... drugs?_

_"Mutants now manifest their powers in limited quantities: rarely do we see a telepath with impregnable skin or a shapeshifter capable of firing kinetic blasts. Lying within you is the potential to simultaneously achieve an astounding variety of powers at unheard of levels. Your child would be nothing short of divine, and hence, my perfect heir. The father will need to have incredible abilities to overcome what has amounted to Rebecca's curse. I believe James Braddock Jr. is this man, one whose genes--coupled with his reality altering abilities--can potentially unlock the wealth inside of you. Your child will change the fate of mutantkind, and indeed, the world."_

* * *

A car's horn jostled me to my senses. The light turned green and I wasn't going, a veritable sin against God in this busy Manhattan traffic. The person behind me in the Mini swerved onto part of the sidewalk to get around me. As he passed, we made eye contact, I flipped him the finger, and my car roared forward to leave him in a difficult position.

Hoped he wasn't one of my neighbors.

The rest of my drive home was uneventful. Uneventful was good because it allowed me to prepare myself for my insatiable Betsy. I grew sinfully wet at my titillating thoughts of mouths and tongues and pussies and breasts. I sucked in a breath of cold air while my quivering legs did their best to get me home to a red faced, panting, and cum drenched Betsy. My hand left the steering wheel and brushed against the tube of hand lotion Father provided me with.

"It's a sedative with aphrodisiac qualities designed to be absorbed through the vaginal mucosa. I'm sure you know what to do with it."

I knew what to do with it alright. As I pulled into my condo's parking structure, I checked myself in the rearview. My eyes didn't have those dark rings around them, my lipstick wasn't smudged, and my hair was perfectly tussled--nothing amiss, at least no more than what I experienced at the office on a normal day.

Park, exit, go up stairs, stop outside home. I put my ear against the door to hear sounds of frying, chopping, and classical music. My Betsy was cooking dinner for us. Had to do something to repay her, no?

Setting down my briefcase, I popped the top on the lotion and rubbed its cold jelly all over my hands. I expected a tingling sensation or something, but I got none. Should I have expected it? No, Father was a genius and he didn't let little details like this slip by. The lotion would work only where he wanted it to, nowhere else. I tucked the tube into my purse and took out my keys.

Show time.

"Mmm, what's that wonderful smell, honey?"

"Almond chicken, luv," Betsy replied from the kitchen amidst much pot banging. "You're home early tonight."

I shrugged off my coat and threw my personal effects on the couch. I undid the top two buttons of my shirt while kicking off my shoes. "I couldn't wait to get out of there. It was one of those days, you know?"

When I rounded the corner, I had to steady my breath. Betsy had her hair in a ponytail and the cutest pair of glasses on her face. She wore a casual kimono, the light green one with the gold sash she just loved to strut around in. About fifteen other things went on at once yet the place didn't look like a war zone. Bowls and measuring cups floated to and fro while lids lifted themselves off to stop the soup from boiling over. She herself presided over the cutting board, knife in hand and flashing with deadly precision. It looked to be an impressive spread tonight, but I only hungered for one thing.

We briefly kissed while I hugged her from behind. A few light strokes coaxed her nipples to stand up and show their impressions through the kimono's thin silk. "I missed you," I purred into her ear.

"Really?" she chuckled. "I couldn't tell."

I could tell by the way her chopping slowed she was getting into the moment. With an aggressiveness belying my usual ways, I ripped off her sash. Her delightful squeal and the clothes' opening allowed me to massage her gorgeous mounds. Her knife clanked onto the counter, concentration waning.

Need tinged my already husky voice. "I want to fuck you right here, right now."

No excuses about dinner escaped her. Vegetables, cutting boards, and serving dishes scattered like sand as she twisted herself around and lanced her tongue into my mouth. I hooked my hands onto the back of her thighs and lifted her onto the counter. By now the kimono drifted down past her shoulders; would've been simple to disrobe her, but I spurred myself on. I sucked on a nipple and pressed against my fingers against the sensitive area surrounding her sex.

Her head cracked against a cabinet but the blow did nothing to slow her moans. I surged upwards to mute her nonsensical gasps. Would she scream when the drug was taking hold? Would she know what was happening to her? I didn't want to find out.

With our lips sealed around each other, I pushed four fingers into her. Forsaking my usual ministrations, I worked to coat the drug all over her insides. I turned and spread and stretched, each fleeting touch against her bringing forth jolts of excitement from her. She bucked against my hand, wetness gushing from her like a flood. Electricity coursed through her making her usually calculated, fluid motions erratic and out of rhythm. We fucked, or rather I fucked her, fucked her till her tight ponytail frayed, her body burst into an intense sweat, and her glasses lay crooked on her face.

Limply, she fell away from my kiss and slumped against the cabinet.

Her hips still gyrated on their own. All around me, pots boiled over, pans charred what was once appetizing, and Betsy's eyes rolled into the back of her head. Finally, all her muscles caved into exhaustion and the only thing keeping her from sliding onto the ground was my hand imbedded in her pussy.

From behind me, a dark light ripped through the air like something straight out of a sci-fi movie. Images materialized beyond the darkness, but it was still so hazy and foreboding. Father said I was to use it to go back to him.

A spittle of drool cascaded down the side of Betsy's mouth. I licked it clean and whispered to her, "Don't worry, my love, Father will know what's best for us."

Father knew what's best. I gathered her in my arms, took a deep breath, and stepped through the portal. The trip? Instantaneous. My bright kitchen filled with smells of sex and still sizzling chicken blended into Father's cold, impersonal lab. Cold, stale air stood my hairs on end. Before the portal could completely collapse, another person tried to relieve me of Betsy.

Martinique. Lady Mastermind. I didn't like her, though why I wasn't quite sure..

Father saw our impromptu staring match. He gave an indulgent chortle and declared, "Let her bring Psylocke to me, Martinique. I love it so when my children want to be involved in my work!"

I struggled to carry Betsy but I wouldn't let Father down. I wouldn't show weakness to Martinique, make her vile, hateful sneer bloom into mocking laughter. After summoning all my strength, I gently lay Betsy down on the metal examination table. The moment I did, the table came to life. What appeared solid liquefied into restraints around her arms, legs, and torso.

Father clasped a collar around her neck. Despite it digging into her flesh, Betsy seemed none bothered. A tray full of instruments--scalpels, syringes, electrodes, other things I had no familiarity with--levitated itself beside Father.

"Are you going to hurt her?"

All conscious parties seemed surprised at my question, myself the most. Was Father going to hurt Betsy? What kind of dumb question was that? What I felt didn't matter. What Betsy felt didn't matter. Father was trying to save mutantkind, and when saving so many, some inevitably got hurt. Betsy knew where her brother Jamie was, and in knowing so, also held the key for saving her people. Why then did I feel so apprehensive?

Father squinted at me, disapproving. "I see your willpower is greater than I anticipated, daughter. Truly remarkable that someone like yourself with no manifested powers can stand up to the drugs I've put into you. Remarkable," his voice dipped to a dangerous low, "and remarkably annoying. Martinique, please correct my daughter's state of mind while I extract some valuable information from Psylocke."

"With pleasure."

I found myself being dragged away from Father and Betsy. What had I done? I'd displeased Father and left Betsy in a lurch. I was not fond of Martinique and now I was going to be alone with her while she "corrected" my state of mind.

Her grip on my wrist tightened, nails now digging into my skin. The subtle but sadistic move reminded me of... of... last night? What was it about her and last night? Why did I not like her? Reaching beyond the past hour was too hard and something inside me screamed that Father wasn't helping matters. An epic migraine set in behind my eyes and jabbed at my brain. Waves of nausea flipped my stomach back and forth the more I searched myself for the reasons behind my actions.

The more I thought, the faster Martinique dragged me. She muttered vile curses and undisguised disgust at me, uncertain what Father would want "in this neurotic, clueless whiner, daughter or no." Passing by corridor after corridor we went, often past vats with people or monsters inside of them. Machines beeped and lights flashed while the pale blue light overhead kept the laboratory amply lit and suitably mysterious all at the same time. No other soul greeted us along the way; no computer's voice told us we were making too much noise.

Judging by the stream of profanity coming out of Martinique's mouth, I could see why nothing wanted to bother us.

"That's enough of your snarkish thinking, flatscan." Her open palm crashed against my cheek and knocked me to one knee.

The stark hit cleared my malaise and only now did I notice we were in another room, not a corridor. Flasks containing all sorts of liquids bubbled away here. Chemical stenches weighed down on me while my captor filled a syringe from a nearby cylinder. A blue hue reminded me of...

... earlier today, screaming and struggling against my bonds, watching as the thing called Mr. Sinister shot me up...

The sickness returned but I held on to the memory. What else happened? What was it about last night and Martinique? I hated her, but why? Betsy warned me about-

I looked up in time to see a needle coming at me. Quickly--more quickly than I thought I was capable of at the moment--I jerked aside, snared her wrist, and twisted. The glass carpule shattered when it hit the ground but I paid it no attention; instead, I forced myself against her. Two steps in and I felt us toppling, me atop her, onto a table. Scalding liquid splashed onto me, but from the way Martinique swore, she got the worse of it.

I tried to punch her, I really did, but my fist weighed a ton and my head wouldn't stay up. My slowing moves allowed her to throw me off and take back control of the fight. I remembered why I was fighting now, because Mr. Sinister had tricked me by pretending to be Sebastian Shaw and had used Martinique the previous night to read my mind. Betsy was in trouble because of me and I was her only hope.

The tip of a leather boot clipped my temple, sending me reeling. She grabbed a fistful of my hair and made me look up at her. "You like playing rough, don't you? It's no wonder a slut like Psylocke lets you eat her pussy!"

The lotion. The drug I used on Betsy. Some of the slick cream still remained on my hands. For a defiant moment, I narrowed my eyes at her. She gasped as her telepathy showed her what I intended to do. We moved as one, her backing away and me driving my shoulder into her stomach. Again she slammed into the table but awareness of the sharp glass scattered from our previous pass made her fight to remain upright.

Despite the wrongness of it all, I shoved my hand under her tight waistband. A sudden jab into my mind almost blacked me out but Betsy's memory kept me from going under. As my fingers came up against unfamiliar folds of flesh, my migraine worsened to epic portions. Blood leaked from my nose and maybe even my ears. Her fists beat against my back. She tried to squirm away but I held fast.

When I entered her vagina, she was desert dry. Seconds after my digits went in, she was writhing in ecstasy. Instead of punching me, she pawed at my shirt. My headache lessened though the bleeding continued. The first few thrusts were hard, but now, I easily slipped my entire fist into her slippery canal. Carnal shrieks echoed from wall to wall. She ground her hips into my hand to relieve her tension but I wasn't being kind.

I pulled my hand out of her and fell onto my butt.

Martinique--torso splayed onto the glass littered table and legs hanging over the edge--spasmed, caught in the clutches of orgasm after orgasm. A wet patch formed around her crotch and expanded to her inner thighs. She violently squeezed her breasts, seemingly trying to tear away her clothes to get a better grip. Eventually, she slowed, probably from her profusely bleeding wounds but more likely because of the drug. The wet patch found its way down to her knees. Meaningless twitches now replaced powerful orgasms, her body spent just like Betsy's was.

Betsy.

My head spun. A fever consumed me. Shivers unsteadied my body. Close by, Betsy needed me because I was too dumb to run when I had a chance, too proud to call her for help, too naïve in my belief of the law protecting me from the rich and powerful.

Needed a weapon and the scalpel glinting from the lab bench beckoned me. What was I going to do to a mountain of a man like Mr. Sinister? How would I--all one hundred and twelve pounds of me--hope to even put his eye out?

I tried to tell myself I'd come up with a plan on the way there. In hopes of finding anything useful, I swept my eyes back and forth as I half-walked, half-stumbled back to Betsy. What looked useful I couldn't carry, what looked dangerous I didn't know how to operate, and what looked alien just plain freaked me out.

A scalpel. I was half-walking, half-stumbling into a shapeshifting, mind-controlling monster's place of work with a scalpel as my only defense. Lovely. My pockets? Empty, and even if I had my cell phone, I doubt I would've gotten any reception. Betsy's salvation lay in a scalpel and my love for her.

Now I knew I was recovering from the drugs: my brain once more entertained corny thoughts. Love... what a load of bullshit in times like these. What I needed was a big gun or a streetgang or the X-Men. I didn't need to be on the verge of freaking out and wanting to stab myself in the head just to get out of this situation.

Wait a second, stab myself in the head? Didn't Mr. Sinister want me to have his grandkid? Bleah, wrong in a disgusting fashion, but splitting migraine aside, I distinctly remembered that part. I'd be no use to him dead.

Suicide was my best weapon. How comforting.

In the distance, I heard him humming a Beethoven symphony, the Erocia. Not like I spent my childhood listening to classical music but Dad did and the Erocia was one of his favorites. Oh my God, if what Sinister said was true, my dad wasn't my dad anymore: that white faced freak himself was. The more I remembered about today, the more I wanted to forget already.

When I woke up this morning, I was a normal real estate who was dating a hot model and avoiding her parents after abruptly coming out to them. That set of circumstances sounded much more delightful than kidnapped, manipulated, drugged, battered, bloodied, and clueless about my entire existence. Drama about day-to-day things became so insignificant when compared to life and death. Maybe that's why Betsy was able to keep an even keel about her most of the time.

No matter how bad life was, she'd been through worse.

I hoped and prayed she'd get through this.

My entrance back into Mr. Sinister's presence was far from grand. Instead of striding in triumphant and spouting off some brave but cheesy movie one-liner, I tripped over my own tired feet and fell on my hands and knees. Took a miracle for the scalpel not to puncture anything important of mine. I traded in my triumphant look for a desperate one because I figured bravado fooled no one.

Not when I was on the ground.

Not when he loomed over my still sleeping Betsy with machines, vials, and tubes running into and out of her.

"What are you doing to her?" I demanded.

I thought he'd say something inane like all movie villains did ("Where's Martinique?" or "You?!" or "Ah, we meet again, Ms. Cerras."), but he surprised me. "Harvesting her ova."

The answer gave me pause. I expected him to be Hannibal Lecter, prepping Betsy as a meal. I expected a totally vile deed being done here, and while "harvesting her ova" without permission remained vile in its own right, the act seemed innocent all things considered.

Next question then. "Why?"

"My daughter, I'm a man of science, a geneticist of no small regard. Surely you don't expect me let such a specimen like your Elisabeth Braddock slip through my grasp."

"Get away from her."

A chilling, boisterous laughter rumbled from his barrel of a chest and filled my soul with dread. "Or you'll what, my dear? I'm disappointed Martinique failed in giving you more of my conditioning drugs but she's still done quite a number on you. What could a battered human possibly do to me? Make me laugh myself to death?"

I swallowed the bile in my throat and growled as menacingly as I could, "I'll kill myself."

Even as the words left my mouth, I saw Sinister wasn't the least bit miffed by the threat.

"Stop it!" he howled in amusement. "You really are trying to make me laugh myself to death, aren't you? Kill yourself? The sheer comedy of it all! To think, you actually thought your life meant something to me. What would ever possess you to come to such a spurious conclusion, my daughter?"

"You said I'm your daughter. You said you needed me to give you a child. You said... you said..."

During my tired puzzlement, Sinister composed himself. He pulled all the instruments away from Betsy while keeping his red, soulless stare on me. "Contrary to what you think, blood is not thicker than water. You are an evolutionary step, an instrument to my ultimate legacy. Instruments, my dear daughter, are made to be discarded once used up. Your continued defiance only shows me your usefulness has run its course."

He picked up a hypodermic needle from one of the trays at his side. "In case you're wondering how I intend to have my heir without your bodily cooperation, the answer is simple: genetics. I need your genes to combine with James Braddock's. How that's done, whether it means he mounts you like a wild animal or I combine his sperm and your ovum in a growth medium, is of no consequence. Kill yourself? Please, my daughter, do it. The dead are so much easier to steal organs from than the live. In fact, why don't I wake up Ms. Braddock and have her witness your demise?"

I couldn't sprint forward. I couldn't stop the tears from running down my face or Sinister from injecting his syringe into Betsy. My jaw snapped shut and my legs weighed heavier than lead. Whatever he did before (before when he disguised himself as Sebastian Shaw) to stop me from escaping him, he did again.

Was this kind of power what I expected to stop with a scalpel? How insane was I? Sinister froze me without even looking and I wanted to stab him with a surgical instrument?

Betsy moaned, the first sound I heard from her since I brought her here. Seeing her groggy and vulnerable made me feel about two feet tall. I willed my mouth to open and it shocked me by complying.

"I'm sorry, Betsy."

Betsy twitched in her bindings while Sinister growled, "I didn't allow you to speak."

"I'm sorry, Betsy!"

My fingers loosened. Muscles, albeit sluggishly and stiffly, returned to my command. Sinister strode at me like a rampaging bull, grabbed my neck, and lifted me off the ground.

Needless to say, he robbed my power of coherent speech. "You shouldn't be gagging or gasping or flailing right now. You should be quietly dying while your lover recovers from her drug induced slumber. What are you doing?"

Desperately, I stabbed the scalpel into his forearm. I intended to rip my weapon out and use it again but his skin formed around the blade to trap it. As my vision dimmed, his grip strengthened, my lungs burned, and my heart sped to unhealthy levels. Blood pounded in my ears, pounded so loud I couldn't hear the screams coming out of Betsy's mouth or the racket she must've been making slamming her head against the lab table.

Pounding in my ears now joined by ringing. I saw Sinister mouth ferociously, "What are you doing?! How are you doing it?!"

I had no idea what I did. All I knew was I refused to die quietly, that if these were to be my last moments, I needed to try and set right what I did to Betsy. I wanted to hurt Sinister for bringing me to this point, for manipulating my family, for casting doubt onto my existence. My hand on the scalpel wretched and turned for all it was worth as I prayed to hit bone. Hitting bone meant pain which meant he might let go. I'd survive a few more precious seconds.

A series of crinkles rang through my deaf ears. The fire in my lungs extinguished. I saw my hand on the scalpel fall away, now dangling loosely against my side. My heart slowed to a crawl, pounding no more. Betsy, every toned and sculpted muscle on her straining and bulging, lunged uselessly while her face froze in a hideous howl. I heard more crinkles, then an ominous snap. My head tilted to one side, neck broken and unable to support its weight.

Sinister laughed and let me go.

I didn't hurt when I slammed and bounced against the ground. Things go bad when you couldn't even feel numbness. I couldn't move, I couldn't hear, I couldn't breathe, but for some ungodly reason, I could see. I could see Sinister releasing Betsy from the table, grabbing her hair, and throwing her at me. I could see her tears as she yelled at me, something about "getting up" and "can't be dead" if her lips were any indication. Naked on her hands and knees, her eyes hardened, one moment on the verge of hysteria and the next murderous.

Her fingers pried against the collar on her neck but she couldn't get it loose. She spat at Sinister but he responded via a thunderous slap. My heart jumped.

My heart jumped!

How?! What?! My heart started itself again. Tingling sensations filled me from head to toe. My hearing, absent from the deadly silence, returned.

"-ily. I will note the Braddock family's noble sacrifice in my journals."

Betsy pulled so hard against her collar that her nails pierced skin, causing blood to run down her heaving chest. She had no recourse, just her bared teeth, straining effort, and that fabled defiance.

"Better not yank too hard, Psylocke. The inhibitor collar is keyed to my genetic signature. Should it be removed without my consent, the adamantium spikes within it will deploy and skewer your lovely neck in fifteen places. However, if that happens, I'll be sure to save you a place next to my daughter's."

"You despicable trash. You bloody creature! I hope when you go wake Jamie, he tears your soul apart!"

"Yes, the famed James Braddock Jr. Which reminds me, I have to remove poor Vivian's ovaries before they necrose. Organs are so hard to keep fresh in a rotting corpse."

"Through my fucking dead body, Sinister!"

Oh lord, why couldn't Betsy just leave? She had her legs and she could run! Why stay kneeled here and defending my body like I was fully alive? I mean, what else could I call myself? Usually snapped necks and stopped hearts meant dead, but here I was, almost feeling like I could talk and move again.

Was I going through an out of body experience? Was I really dead and all my soul was doing was giving me some comfort? If it was trying to comfort me, why did I feel cold and pain? Why did my neck burn and my lungs labor?

How come I could raise and wiggle my fingers?

Since his bottomless red eyes went wide, I could assume Sinister saw me moving. Air, glorious air, returned to my constricted throat. I chanced a slight move of my head, and when I did, my body lit ablaze in agony. Tingling numbness exploded into unadulterated, unfiltered pain. My entire being caught up to its last agonies and decided to push every horrifying sensation onto me post-haste. A crinkle and a snap, and this time, my vision fizzled. For a terrible second, I thought my time on this world was truly, finally done. God played His last trick on me and decided to call it quits.

Well, I wasn't so lucky.

My heart pounded again but now to the surging tidal wave of pulsating pain rumbling through me. My raspy throat approximated its best moans while I spasmed about like a woman caught in a seizure. My hands shot up and massaged my neck in a vain attempt to ease myself. A storm brewed in my brain, complete with thunder, lightning, hammering rain, and deafening winds--every conceivable ache ranging from nausea to nerve pains gouged into me.

Through it all, I heard Sinister whisper, "Fascinating."

Betsy's familiar arms cradled me. I curled up against her, surrounded myself in her strength, smell, and skin. My writhing slowed and my neck hurt less, now excruciating instead of unbearable. How I drew comfort in such small gestures I didn't know, but I did.

"What did you do to her?"

"I killed her."

"Then why is she like this?!"

"Temper, temper, Ms. Braddock. I'd appreciate it if you'd use your indoor voice. Remember who has access to their powers and who doesn't in this pathetic excuse for a standoff."

I watched Betsy pawing at her collar and put two and two together. After going through this madhouse, I had no doubt Sinister could make something to block her mutant powers. He said the infernal device was keyed to his genetic signature, right? Well, if I was really his daughter...

My wobbly hand reaching upwards garnered Betsy's attention. She stared at me, amazed puzzlement and not a small bit relief breaking through the mask of unbound rage. The moment my fingers pressed against the collar, a tiny click silenced Sinister's arrogant chuckles. The collar released and fell to the ground.

My voice--bone dry and wheezing--managed a soft, "Love you, Betsy."

I'd never seen the full extent of her powers. She told me she'd gotten them from a friend who, for all intents and purposes, was a god. They exchanged part of themselves during a particularly harrowing adventure, but since then, they never had another chance to sit down and sort themselves out. It was a moot point though since the friend was dead, her husband moving on to greener, more buxom pastures and her memory faded into oblivion by the troubles today brought. All that the friend left behind was an awesome power Betsy never had the inclination nor courage to really, truly test.

She said it was a frightening power. She said no one person should ever be allowed to wield the power she did. She said her friend controlled the power with an even temperament and compassionate heart, two things her fiery self lacked. She said the power of telekinesis, at its highest mastery, meant control of everything to the subatomic level.

Air around us condensed. Breezes thickened into visible wisps while time screeched to a halt, akin to a pitcher winding up for that last strike. All at once, a great force rushed against Sinister and blasted him back. Metal grating and surgical tables bent out of shape; delicate machines burst into tiny particles. As if a bomb had gone off, the room's walls bowed out irregardless of material or architectural stability. The ground rippled like the ocean, only unlike the ocean, metal and concrete failed to return to their original states. The sterile lab transformed into a ruin, dust and debris kicking about where order and cleanliness once reigned. Sinister smashed into one of those straining walls and kept on going. His angry voice carried far through his sprawling maze and gave me chills.

Betsy gathered me in her arms and kissed me. "Hold on tight."

A weird, ethereal, pink barrier came between us and the world. With one great leap, Betsy rocketed up to the ceiling. If my throat could've, I would've screamed bloody murder. However, instead of a smashing into solid steel and earth like bugs on a windshield, we plowed through without stopping. The fluorescent lights from Sinister's lab faded into darkness, and then from the darkness came the moon and the stars.

* * *

The highway stretched before us. No end in sight, no music to break up the silence, not even a gas station cast a glow against the blackened sky--the scene was allegorical to my thoughts and feelings. I felt lost and unsure of my identity, my past, and my place within the world. Not an hour ago, my life ended. I wasn't normal. Was Sinister my father or was Dad my father? Could I go back to La Roche and pretend nothing happened? My neck snapped, I knew I died, but I was here, alive and breathing.

Headlights flashed against regular lines of white paint. Betsy drove, her eyes on the road and her free hand clasped in mine. After burrowing our way out of Sinister's lab, we headed home long enough to get her a change of clothes and us to jump into my car. Though we didn't say it, neither of us felt safe in the condo anymore; at least for tonight, closing its door gave me more relief than anguish. Now she was driving and to where I had no clue.

She tried to talk to me a few times but I didn't reply. Rude? Incredibly so, but I couldn't stand the otherworldly creaking and flapping in my throat when I last spoke. It was a horrifying sound, much more horrifying to feel than hear. For God's sake, my vocal cords pressed against each other while my lungs searched for some way to inflate themselves! The memory made me shudder.

Betsy squeezed my hand. "I love you."

I flinched. How could she love me after I betrayed her? How could she love whatever the hell I'd become? How could she love me when I did everything to make this situation as worse as it could've been? I bet everyone she'd ever been with wasn't as gullible as me; after all, her ex's included superheroes and spies, so I brought up the rear when it came to courage and suave. Love me? I was surprised she didn't hate me.

"Vivian, I swear we'll pull through this."

Only if I wasn't dead weight to her. Sinister got her because of me. I was her weakness; I was slowing her down. I was everything she didn't need at the moment: vulnerable, shocked, and wrapped up in my own problems.

"Vivian? Honey? Please, say something."

Against my will, I sniffled and sobbed. The last of my mental strength gave way, condemning me into showing the nervous wreck that I was. I shrank away from her and huddled against the door. I needed to leave all this shit behind, rewind the day so none of this happened. All at the same time, I was embarrassed, terrified, and angry. I couldn't describe the tangled web inside of me, but it sucked.

We stopped moving. Beyond my tears, I saw the highway's shoulder. Cars, though few, zoomed by. I wanted to walk into the darkness and disappear forever. I didn't want to know anything anymore. I didn't want to deal with... with... life.

Her sharp voice shocked me back from the brink of hysteria. "Look at me."

Ever so slowly, I did what she wanted.

"Don't let that sodding leech get to you. I know it's hard, but believe me when I say I love you. Believe me when I say I'm going to be here and we are going to put an end to this. You can hurt, you can be afraid, but don't let him beat you: he isn't good enough to do that."

Maybe so, but "What's happening to me?"

Betsy shrugged. "I haven't the foggiest idea. You're alive and that's all that matters."

That's all that matters? "How can you say that? Betsy, I DIED!"

"Cheer up, luv, now we have something else in common."

Didn't she hear me? I said I... wait. She died too? When? How?

My bewildered face broadcasted my thoughts and led Betsy to shake her head. "There's nights when I lie awake and wonder how I'm alive too. Not knowing the how and why of my current existence bothers me to no ends, but I try to remind myself to give thanks to God and move on. Still, the nagging remains, consuming me if I'm not careful. In fact, it bothers some other people so much they don't want to have anything to do with me anymore."

When she said some other people, all I could think about were those famous mutants I saw on TV and in the papers. "The X-Men?"

"I died saving them, Vivian. A bastard rammed his sword through my gut and almost cut me in half. I remember every detail, every sensation, every nerve on fire. I died so they could live, but I'm back. I'm back and for some bloody reason, they don't trust me. They never gave me a chance, and I suppose they're justified because they fight manipulative scum like Sinister. Once burned, twice shy, you know? They're playing it safe, but I know who I am. Shame that my word isn't good enough for them anymore."

"But they can find out what happened to me, to us, right? They fight Sinister, so they know how to deal with us?"

Her reply was flat and swift. "We're not going to the X-Men."

"Then who else can help us?"

"A family friend of mine recently moved to Boston. He can point us in the right direction."

Just like that? "Betsy, who is he? What kind of a person would know anything about... about..."

"Coming back from the dead? Trust me, if there's anyone on this planet who would, it's John Constantine."

* * *

_**- The End.**_

* * *

End Notes: Thank you so much for reading! And yes, there will another part to round out this triology. Stay tuned to see how the incomparable John Constantine makes his way into this tangled web!


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